This Doesn't Hurt
by run-for-your-life-hikari
Summary: Shawn doesn't know what he's done, but he's gotten into something he can't undo alone. Even though it means revealing a new side of himself, he needs Carlton Lassiters help. Badly. One-shot, implied Shassie
1. Pieces

Picking himself up from the concrete, he gently feels his bleeding face. He'd seen it coming; he always saw it coming, but he never stopped it. He takes everything dished out to him and he doesn't know why until he looks up through the blood and sees the strong backed man striding away. To the open mouths and obvious stares, he follows the man, trying to stop the bleeding, because _he loves me; I know he does. _

It'd been the twelfth time that week, and it was only Wednesday. Carlton knew something was up; he was detective for goodness sake and he _knew _that twelve large bruises sprouting over the fake psychic detective were not just the product of clumsiness. So, as he did in all concerning situations, he handled it maturely. He staked out Spencer's house.

Pulling up in his Crown Victoria, he parked in the least obvious space he could find on the annoyingly open street near the rundown apartment building and hauled the binoculars to his face, ready for a long night of nothing. Stake outs, though very useful for catching suspects in compromising situations, were extremely long and boring, so he wasn't expecting anything out of the ordinary despite being on a seedier side of the town.

Training his binoculars on the window and keeping his eyes on the door to Spencer's specific door, he waited. To Carlton's surprise, it took very little time before another motorcycle pulled up beside the fake psychic's.

A broad shouldered man hops off and strides purposefully towards Shawn's door. The door is open before he gets there and Spencer is standing there illuminated by the light spilling forth from the doorway.

Carlton can't see much but what he sees shocks him, as Spencer, head bowed and shoulders slumped, moves quickly out of the way of the other man. The door is shut again, and Carlton is left with unanswered questions.

The next day at the station is quiet for the most part, until Shawn shows up flamboyant as usual. Something, though, is off. Something isn't right and as their eyes meet, blue and green colliding, he sees that Shawn _knows; _he _knows _Carlton _knows and_ his eyes and body reflect fear for the briefest of moments before he is off knocking things off desks and making a nuisance of himself.

The stalking doesn't stop. Carlton follows Shawn through his daily routine. At ten, he is out the door and high-tailing it to the nearest Jamba Juice for his favorite snack. Random store visits and work visits to Psych and the station proceed and then he is home, always at the same time. Every day, he returns at nine and the strange man returns at ten.

Carlton watches closely that week for clues and when the weekend rolls around, he gets a break in his personal case.

The strange man bangs out of the door at seven, fervently followed by a pleading and shouting Shawn. The man, face twisted into an ugly snarl, turns on Shawn when they make it down the stairs. Instead of standing his ground, Shawn immediately backs down, cowering under the taller man's disgusted glare. It's too late.

Carlton is horrified as the man savagely grips the back of Shawn's neck and pulls his face up to glare into his eyes and he sees the _fear _and the _knowing _in them. Remotely, Carlton notices blinds go down and doors shut. Ferociously, the man throws Shawn back and as he stumbles, advances on him again. The backhanded slap resounds through the suddenly quiet neighborhood followed by the loud roar of an engine as the man drives away leaving Shawn in a heap upon the ground.

Shawn's eyes seek out his, like that day he seemed to look straight through the one-sided window, and he starts. He sees it. He _sees it. _Shawn's eyes look _haunted_, and Carlton finally sees the _pleading _in them, the _need_, the _hopelessness _and wonders where he has been looking to miss such an obvious clue.

Later, he would get his revenge. Shaking in anger, he would chase down that scumbag and cuff him. That man would be in the back of his car and in a jail cell for as long as Carlton could put him there. If it needed to be done, that man would be _dead, _the law be _damned. _


	2. Bail

He _posts bail, _the bastard. Carlton is livid as he is ordered to unlock the cell door, and sign the papers. Ripping the cuffs off roughly, he growls within his chest, but at a sharp look from the chief, he stalks to his desk to finish the paperwork from his last case.

The doors to the station bang open and in comes the station's favorite psychic. Carlton looks up and catches the man's eyes as he makes his way across the bullpen. The determined look surprises him and sends a bolt of foreboding through him in all the same breath.

Eyes steely, striding purposefully, Shawn makes his way up to the man, _Jerry Hamilton. _Carlton likes _the stranger _better than him actually having a name. He doesn't deserve one.

Shawn stops in front of the man, now very dwarfed by the other's massive size, "I brought your bike." He'd meant it to come out with ferocious anger, but it almost sounded meek. The man looks up with a charming smile, and Carlton almost pukes.

His open hand is waiting for the keys and suddenly all of his will seems to disappear. Shawn knows it's now or never; he knows he needs to make his stand. He _knows knows knows, _because he's been _told told told. _

Carlton watches him hesitate and gets up from his desk, unsure of what to do.

The station is eerily silent as the keys connect with the ground _hard; _Shawn is already flinching as the man's charming smile is twisted and ugly. Carlton _has _to stop it, _wants _to stop it _so bad _but it's like he's running in slow motion.

Not one person expected the next event except for Carlton and _again, _he is _too late. _

A punch to the stomach makes Shawn double over and gasp for breath, and a slap to the face turns his head away. The larger man with brutal strength shoves Shawn, and he's falling, _falling_. The ground meets his face and his hips and shoulders connect with a sickening thud.

Coughing, spluttering he hears the next words issued forth from the man he'd thought _loved _him, "_Shawn,_" and it's ugly, worse than a dog's name, and cold steel finds its way into Carlton's hand as a red haze descends upon him, "I thought we talked about this."

With a sick fascination, Carlton watches, he can't make himself look away, and maybe he doesn't want to. He keeps up his walking, but it seems like the bullpen grows every time he moves an inch.

The officers watch the unfolding scene, and grasp at the wisps of understanding what is happening in front of them. It's like a soap opera and no one can find their feet.

The man's feet are kicked from beneath him and a knee is nestled in his back in split seconds. Carlton's knee to be exact and his gun joins the pile. He's growling and he can feel it, but he _doesn't care. _It's a feral and angry sound and it finally makes people find their feet.

Several officers disarm Carlton and hold him back. It takes three men just to get him off the other man, but as soon as he is off, another beat cop cuffs the _bastard _and drags him away roughly.

The red haze clears around Carlton's eyes and he can hear the voracious growling followed by explicatives flowing from his mouth at the other man. All eyes are on him and Shawn, now up from the ground and looking strangely at the detective.

Carlton shakes the officers off of him with a grunt, steals back and holsters his gun, and grabs Shawn. They are going to lunch _now _and he'll deal with the chief later.


End file.
